


Debt Collecting

by beswathe



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Future Fic, Gen, Unlikely Friends to Slightly More Conventional Friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beswathe/pseuds/beswathe
Summary: In another school, in another state, Galloway receives a visit from an old student.





	Debt Collecting

At the best of times, Lionel Galloway can count approximately five things he misses about New Hampshire, with very few involving Bullworth Academy. For the most part, Vermont is simply another flavour of New England, its climate and topography similar enough to his previous location that he rarely notices any differences—but today is not one of those glorious days.

For his classroom there had, at least, boasted reliable central heating. His new classroom, one of many in a Burlington state school, ostensibly entertains itself by trying to freeze him to death.

And he’s apparently the only soul who’s caught on to its fiendish plan, because none of his morning students appeared to notice. None of them had mentioned it by the lunch bell. They’re no more eager than usual to flood out of the room at the end of class (which is ‘ _quite eager’_ as a baseline)—and for the first time in a while, Lionel feels equally anxious to scarper.

Longingly picturing the hot tea he'll be able to brew in his office, he's halfway through shoving his things into his briefcase when he's made dimly aware of a voice coming from somewhere nearby. It takes a moment longer for him to place it—but when he does, he freezes for reasons entirely unrelated to the weather.

How could he not?

That’s the unmistakable urban cadence of Jimmy Hopkins.

It’s been half a decade since James graduated from Bullworth, which would place the boy at around twenty-three or so by now—but with his defiant posture and world-weary gaze, he could pass for a young thirty. Granted, he hadn’t looked much different aged fifteen.

He’s dressed almost smartly, office-casual, with his hair apparently pardoned from its exile because he now sports a crew cut. The longer Galloway examines him, the more he succumbs to the tunnel vision of nostalgia; this is not the classroom they used to meet in, but with James standing in the doorway now, he could almost be convinced otherwise.

“James? Is that really _you_?”

“If it’s not, I sure look like him, don’t I.” Maybe he’d expected to be met with an invitation to enter rather than dumbfounded gawking; he steps inside all the same. “Gotta say, I thought you’d recognise me sooner, considering all the trouble I caused you in my wild youth.”

“Oh, come now,” Galloway says, letting his briefcase drop away and shut. “You were no trouble at all.”

If it registers as only good-natured teasing, that's by design—for if he didn’t make a quip of it, he’d sound awfully sentimental instead. Or perhaps embarrassed. Of the two of them, Galloway thinks _he_ caused the most trouble, entrusting a schoolboy with schemes and secrets that were not entirely age-appropriate. Particularly not between teacher and student, role-model and corruptible mind.

But he’d been a different person then.

Sort of.

“Nice place,” Hopkins says, reviewing his surroundings as he saunters past Galloway’s desk entirely. The nearest table becomes his perch in short order; he hops onto it backwards, legs dangling off the edge. His feet don’t quite touch the ground. The passage of time provided no miraculous growth spurt, then.

“Why, thank you. I wish I could stake a claim in the décor, or even state that I chose the room myself, but—aha.” As soon as he remembers it, Lionel gently pats the bonsai tree upon his desk. “This is mine.”

Hopkins merely stares. “Very cool, sir.”

“I thought so. I’m rather pleased with myself, actually, that I’ve managed to keep it alive for so long.” He withdraws his hand to connect it with the other, idly wringing them. “How did you find me, anyway? Did someone at Bullworth tell you I’d moved?”

“Not even close,” Hopkins says, with a scoff for good measure. “You think I’d ever willingly go back there? Sure, it didn’t end up being as crappy as it began, but I can still think of a thousand better places to be.”

 _My thoughts exactly_ , Galloway thinks, only leaving it unspoken due to an enduring sense of loyalty towards Crabblesnitch. It’s a persistent inclination that lingers like a bad smell, because there were plenty of times the doctor _could_ have fired him in disgrace, but didn’t. All the same, Galloway had left about six months after Hopkins’ class graduated.

“So who told you I was here, then?”

“Geez, Mr. Galloway. You make it sound like I’m stalking you or something.”

“I’d be flattered to hear you consider me worth the energy.”

“Internet.” Hopkins shrugs in the face of Galloway’s subsequent puzzled silence. “Your social media said you work here now, so I figured I’d drop by.”

Though James couldn’t have been clearer, it takes Galloway a moment to artlessly shove the jigsaw pieces together. He’d completely forgotten he even had profiles like that up, and he supposes he can attribute their existence to Deidre. She’d gone through a period of telling him the internet was for more than just comparing student essays to wikipedia, and, er… Yes. Well.

“Of course!” He makes a show of slapping his wrist against his forehead, adding, “Ingenious, Hopkins, ingenious.”

Jimmy shakes his head at that, casting a smile off to the side. It’s either mocking or incredulous; Galloway can’t tell which.

“Man, I see you’re still easily impressed.”

“Shouldn’t I be? You came all this way.” Which just makes Galloway feel guilty, now he considers it. Like he should’ve sensed Hopkins was planning this and foiled the plot from afar. “Ah, Jimmy, I hope it wasn’t just to see me. I like to hear how old students are doing, naturally, but… you didn’t have to.”

“Relax.” Jimmy grins, just for a second, and that process is the stuff of memories too. Unless there was malicious intent behind it, he’d never really been one for smiling. “I’m here ‘cause my mom’s visiting family in Montpelier. No offence, but Vermont? Not a contender for my aforementioned list of better places.”

Conscious of the line between praise and pretension, Galloway displays approval on his face. There’s potentially some truth to him being easily impressed, but after many thankless years as an educator, he takes what he can get.

“ _Aforementioned_? Good word, Hopkins. I suppose I taught you something after all.”

“Let’s keep that between us.”

“Are you working now? That is to say, did you become the prolific writer I always hoped you would?”

“Not exactly. I got into construction. Probably won’t be doing it forever, but it beats living under a bridge.” He smirks, only to hush for a moment. “I think mom wants me to work at her husband’s corporation, but if she thinks that’s realistic, she’s crazier than I thought.”

Oh, yes. That’s correct. The shortage of general civility around Bullworth made it easy to forget that most students hailed from backgrounds of grotesque wealth or academic promise… discounting the exceptions made by its headmaster and all his eccentricities, of course. Hopkins was of the grotesquely wealthy variety. Not that it suits him.

Lionel is on the cusp of speaking when James cuts him off, spreading his hands. Only half-committed to the gesture.

“But enough about me. What about you? Your career.”

“What about it?”

“You _have_ one.”

Now it’s Galloway’s turn to grin. His shoulders shake with silent laughter, too, actively suppressing the sound because he’s not sure he should give Hopkins the satisfaction. Maybe that was supposed to be an insult; even so, if anyone’s earned the right to take cheap shots at him, it’s this kid.

Yet Hopkins, mercifully, isn’t done talking. “I mean it, Mr. Galloway. You got out of Bullworth, you’re the head of English at a normal school, and from what I’ve seen, the kids here don’t show up to class prepared for guerilla warfare... Good for you, man. You deserve it.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Galloway says—not in agreement, merely acknowledgement.

It solves the laughter problem, for he no longer feels all that mirthful. Though he stops just short of losing his smile altogether, it’s mostly for Jimmy’s sake that he bothers. It would be rude to reward such kind words with a look of abject terror, even if that would be more reflective of his general mood.

Not just because of what Hopkins said. That’s how he feels most of the time, these days.

He imagines all those budding shrinks down at the psychology department would call it imposter syndrome, but the label hardly applies. His irrational suspicion that he shouldn’t be here is pretty damn rational. There are years of teaching under his belt that he can only recall in patches, courtesy of scotch burning numerous holes right through his memory—and he only avoided being outright institutionalised thanks to the efforts of the young man right here, currently sitting atop one of his desks.

God, maybe he _should’ve_ been. Consigned to some dingy hospital, that is. Locked away and forgotten about so he could wallow in his own misery in peace.

Nevertheless, as he learned down the line, hilariously crippling depression is so rarely an acceptable topic in polite company, let alone a New Hampshire town with delicate sensibilities. He’s… happier, living out here.

Not completely. But it’s better.

“Thank you,” he says, finally, having allowed quite enough silence to pass. He only hopes Hopkins takes it as a touched one, rather than an exercise in shame. “I owe quite a bit of it to you. I didn’t forget.”

(Which is _surprising_ , really, considering all the blackouts. Perhaps Hopkins just makes that kind of impression.)

“No need to thank me,” Hopkins says. He holds up his hands, as though anything resembling gratitude must be physically deflected. “You’re the only teacher I’ve ever had who didn’t make me wanna claw out my eyeballs and stuff ‘em in my ears. Well—you and Ms. Philips, too.”

At least now, Galloway can offer a smile that reaches his eyes. “I’m delighted you haven’t lost your knack for evocative imagery, James.”

“I was a little surprised, though. When I looked _her_ up, that’s still her name.”

Though James makes a valiant effort to sound conversational, he's not fooling anyone. No matter. Despite the vague discomfort that accompanies the topic of Deidre, every time someone exhumes it, the least Galloway can do is play along.

“This surprised you because?”

“’Cause I thought for sure she’d be Mrs. Galloway by now.”

“Then I’m afraid you thought wrong.” Galloway doesn’t feel his smile waver half as much as he’d feared; perhaps that’s progress. “It turns out I'm an infinitely less valuable muse when I don’t want to wax poetic about the cruelty of man over a second bottle of wine. I think Deidre’s in Venice nowadays.”

Geographically speaking, Shakespeare was woefully misinformed about love being an ever-fixed mark.

“Oh,” Hopkins says, possessing the decency to sound sheepish when he goes on, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Things end, circumstances change. And that _was_ some time ago.”

Suddenly, it feels like his desk has ceased to be an inconsequential fixture. It has instead morphed into an obstacle, so he steps out from behind it and rounds it, leaning against the front. When there’s only floor and air between them, he meets Jimmy’s eye, silently offering one of two things: to continue being candid, or to file that away for now and deftly resume pleasantries.

Hopkins might not be his equal yet but he’s certainly not just a child, either. He’s already seen the worst parts of Lionel Galloway in a way most others haven’t.

“So you’re still sober?” Hopkins asks, eyeing him almost dubiously. _Candid it is_.

“In a physical sense. I can’t say the urge never crosses my mind, but… four years dry.”

“After you left Bullworth.”

“Yes.” Extending his arms behind him, Lionel rests back on them. He grins, bitterly, and dips his head, just enough to avoid having to see the look on Jimmy’s face. “I don’t have to tell you how obscenely inappropriate it is that you know about this at all, but—I suppose all I can say is that I’m sorry.”

“Hey, man...”

“I mean it. If you don’t believe me, I’ve only myself to blame.”

“Save it, Mr. Galloway. Plenty of adults messed me up way more than you.”

“Another thing I’m sorry for. I could’ve done much more to help you.”

Hopkins snorts, or maybe scoffs again, as he draws up his legs, opting to cross them underneath him. It would be a defensive position on anyone else, but it simply looks natural on him. He’s always operated like that: confrontational by default and dwelling in the temerity. Learned behaviour.

Aware that he’s likely just trying to absolve himself of the guilt, Galloway finds himself in agreement that other adults _did_ mess Hopkins up first. No matter how aggressive he’d seemed, no matter how hostile, he’d rarely instigated fights. He’d just been perpetually resigned to the inevitability.

(Or, for old time’s sake: when he was good, he was very good indeed, but when he was bad he was _horrid_.)

“You’re here with your mother, you said?” It’s a loaded question, intentionally so; he’s long suspected Jimmy’s mother of being one of those unreasonable authority figures, even if Hopkins himself never said as much. “Or just visiting family?”

“Both. She’s here too, but we’re not staying together.” Hopkins crinkles his nose. “I’m staying with a cousin and she’s at some swanky hotel with her husband.”

Ah. Yes. Her abundance of marriages. James had mentioned them before, a piece of trivia that’d temporarily taken its leave.

“Still the same one?”

The boy chuckles at that, albeit without much humour. “Yeah. Shockingly.”

 “And is that…” Galloway vaguely waves a hand, mustering up what little remains of his discretion as he searches for the right words. Voraciously consuming literature does not a diplomat make. “Preferable to the alternative?”

“Better the devil you know, I guess. And she sure seems to think this one’s for keeps.” Another shrug. “Apparently, shipping me off to Bullworth did wonders for their marriage.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not—”

“True? That’s what they _told_ me. Straight up.”

Hopkins speaks matter-of-factly, proving to be such a compelling actor that Galloway might’ve been fooled, if it wasn’t for the edge of resentment in his tone. His words come too quickly, too forcefully, the product of having something to prove.

Once, in one of her more fanciful moments, Deidre had asked Galloway if he’d ever thought about having kids, and his answer at the time had been no. It wasn’t because he’d never felt paternal—he’s always liked children, had teaching lined up as his fall-back plan even before his writing career dramatically circled the drain—but because he got quite enough out of the students in his classes. He took their problems home, problems he could do nothing about. He did what he could in the little time he had.

Or at least, he used to, before graduating from one drink a day to ten. Hopkins never saw him at his best.

There’s always a possibility that Hopkins doesn’t even want to, but then, there must be a reason why he accompanied his mother all this way on some frivolous reunion trek to Vermont. When, exactly, in that timeline of events, had Hopkins thought to search up his pathetic old drunk of an English teacher? Was any of this true to begin with?

“You must know that’s a cruel thing to say,” Lionel says, with more conviction than he thought himself capable. “I was always fond of you. There’s no reason your mother can’t be.”

Whatever flashes across Hopkins’ face is complicated and incoherent all at once. Galloway panics for a moment that he’s gone too far, said something Hopkins wasn’t ready to hear, or fundamentally disagrees with because he knows no better. It doesn’t help that Hopkins fleetingly glares, in that uniquely oppressive way of his; that shifts into a look Galloway would tentatively describe as thoughtful.

“We have our problems.” That’s all the ground Hopkins seems willing to surrender for now, and Galloway can at least take a hint.

“As do we all. You’ll grow sick of me saying this, but…” He softens the blow with a half-smile, mouth quirking at the corner. “I’m sorry, James.”

Thank Zeus, it gets a smile out of Jimmy anyhow. “I’m already sick of it! You’re definitely not the guy I’d go to for _un_ happy hour. That would be Petey.”

Galloway really shouldn’t be so thrilled by the suggestion James stayed in contact with Kowalski, in some form or other, but he gives himself away by keenly leaning forward. They’d had the potential to be good influences on each other, so maybe the past five years haven’t rolled by entirely devoid of hope.

Those two (no, that entire _year_ , Bullworth Academy’s class of 20xx) could really do with some genuine friends.

And James had been that to him, walking distillery extraordinaire, when he hadn’t done much to deserve it. He’s finally in a state of mind where he can return the favour.

“I have a break now,” he says, abruptly. James looks at him strangely ‘til he continues, “Lunch, obviously, but then a free period after that. If you’d like, we could get a drink—of the non-alcoholic variety. Maybe something to eat. I’d like to catch up properly.”

“Yeah?” Hopkins says. Furrowing his brow, he doesn’t bother to disguise the apprehension in his voice, like a proper invitation is the last thing he’d anticipated. “I mean… Yeah. Sounds good.”

“Wonderful,” Lionel says, then frowns, uncomfortably conscious of the chill in the air again. "And don't you think it's far too  _cold_ in here, anyway?"

Jimmy looks slightly bemused, though he still gets to his feet. "Kinda. Your heat out or something?"

Ah, he knew there was a reason he'd always liked Hopkins.

A few hours isn’t nearly enough time; for now, it will have to do. Speed probably isn't of the essence but Galloway feels like it is, some part of him fearing Hopkins will rescind when he realizes that whatever he came to Vermont looking for is exactly what he’s going to get.

As one hand seizes his scarf from the back of his chair, Galloway lifts his briefcase with the other (after making sure its locks have properly clicked shut, of course. Spilling its contents all over the place would put a damper on his lofty claims of sobriety). He casts a glance over his shoulder to Hopkins, pleased to find the boy standing patiently in place with arms neatly crossed.

Waiting to follow. Five years and swathes of neglect by self-absorption too late.

“You know,” Galloway begins, as he moves to hold open the classroom door, “your timing is superb, if I’m honest.”

On his way into the corridor outside, Hopkins casts him a questioning look. Asks, “How come?”

He can’t help himself, it seems; now that he knows he _can_ get Hopkins to smile, that it’s an achievable-albeit-unlikely feat, he’s compelled to go for one more try. It's the minimum he owes unhappy students, past or present; it's barely a fraction of what he owes Hopkins. And it’s not like he’s lying, exactly, with what he says next.

“Well, you appear to be quite the digital aficionado. I’ve been looking for someone who can teach me the black magic required to successfully operate Facebook.”

Hopkins doesn’t smile—but he rolls his eyes, exaggerated though not unkindly.

Which is close enough.

“You know me, Mr. Galloway. Always happy to help.”


End file.
